Текст книги "The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty"

Автор книги: Amanda Filipacchi

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“Yes,” Lily says.

As the seconds pass, Lily’s loveliness lessens. “The fade is even more rapid than I expected,” she says.

Within a minute, every hint of beauty has left her.

“Now I just have to see if playback works as well as live,” she says, and asks us to hook up to the speakers the recorder containing the musical hallucinogen.

We do, and turn on the music. She studies her face as her beauty returns. The porcelain skin, the delicate features.

“Peter,” she says, looking at him in the mirror, “thanks for helping me. It’s completely thanks to you that I succeeded.”

“How?” he asks, baffled.

“You made such good points. The women you spoke about, who alter themselves drastically—you said they objectify themselves, that they see themselves as merchandise. You made me realize how important that is. I wasn’t doing it very much, and that was the problem. You helped me see that. So I lowered my self-esteem until I saw myself as no more significant than an item sitting on a shelf—a ceramic pot Penelope might break and put back together. I told myself that I’m like any other object in this world that I must beautify, just an ugly pot.”

“Wait,” Peter says, looking at me. “I can’t believe my ears. I was making the absolute opposite point.”

“Which was then reinterpreted by an artist,” Georgia says.

“Before, I wasn’t focusing on the right things,” Lily says. “But as soon as I tried Peter’s idea of looking at myself as an object, bam! I gained a sense of distance from myself, which freed my mind to come up with this new solution: depth. So that’s what I went for. The music enables you to see past my unfortunate physical appearance.”

“Past it? So what are we looking at?” Jack asks.

Lily doesn’t answer. Her silence is puzzling until I understand what she’s reluctant to state because of her modesty.

“Her soul,” I say.

“Her inner beauty,” Georgia adds.

Blushing slightly, Lily says, “Yeah, it wasn’t shining through. Not even slightly. I don’t know why. My physical appearance is very opaque, in addition to being ugly—an unfortunate combination.”

“So you performed . . . a kind of . . . musical peel?” Penelope asks.

“Yes, exactly.”

“What now? Do you have a plan?” Georgia asks.

“I have a fantasy. One of you will call Strad and offer to set him up on a blind date. He will agree. He and I will have our date at the Barnes & Noble in Union Square, in the coffee shop on the third floor. I will ask the store to play my beauty music on that day, instead of my book music, which they usually play. That’s how the whole thing would begin.”

“The whole thing? So you’re thinking there will be a ‘whole thing’?” Penelope asks.

“Well, that was the point, wasn’t it?” Lily says.

“How can you have a relationship with someone if the music always has to be on?” Peter asks. “What if he wants to take you out where no music is playing? Is this stuff covered in your fantasy?”

“Yes. I’d wear a mask.”

“A mask?”

“Yes. Or just avoid going out. But if I can’t avoid it, I’d wear a mask.”

“Won’t he find that strange?” Peter asks.

“Perhaps. But in my fantasy, he accepts it. And plus, people are often strange.”

“And you wouldn’t mind living your whole life this way?” I ask.

“Maybe not. And that’s an interesting question coming from you, Barb.”

“What if he finds out the truth?” Peter says. “What if you’re at home with him one day and for some reason the music stops and he sees you’re Lily?”

“Maybe his love could survive the truth.”

“What if it couldn’t?” Penelope asks.

“Maybe it won’t be the truth anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asks.

“Maybe by then I will have improved the music to make its effect permanent. Even through silence.”

Georgia claps her hands once. “Okay, who’s going to make the call? I hope it’s not me because the thought of setting you up with that creep is hard to bear.”

“I’m not quite ready yet,” Lily says. “There are two things I have to take care of first.”

AN HOUR AFTER my friends leave, I’m surprised that Lily comes back to my place to speak to me one on one.

She asks me if I could make a mask for her to wear sometimes, if she’s ever out with Strad. She says she wasn’t able to find a nice one that fits her because her eyes are too close together for any normal mask. She says there’s only one she found that fits her, and she pulls it out of her bag. To my horror, it’s a mask of the Wicked Witch of the West, from The Wizard of Oz. The face is hideous green rubber with a hook nose topped by a big mole. The witch is wearing sunglasses—cheap sunglasses attached to the mask. I turn the mask over and see that each eyehole is huge, the size of the entire lens of the sunglasses, which explains why she bought it. Big eyeholes can accommodate a greater variety of distances between people’s eyes.

“You’re right, this is not exactly the kind of mask you want to be wearing when you’re hanging out with Strad,” I say.

“I’m going to wear it at the start of my first date with him.”

“Why?” I ask, stupefied.

“I want to experience what you experience when you take off your disguise at bars.”

I PUT EVERY other project on hold to make the mask. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I’m so excited by what has happened. And it’s all thanks to Peter. Lily will have a chance to taste one of life’s greatest joys: romantic love; unrequited love suddenly requited—something she might never have been able to experience if it hadn’t been for Peter helping her access her greatest powers. He was her source of inspiration. And he wasn’t even trying. He was trying to do the exact opposite—convince her to give up her insane project and unhealthy obsession with Strad. If he’d succeeded at that, it would have been good. But this new outcome is even better. It may not be as healthy, but it’s much more delicious.

I could make a perfectly decent mask in an hour, but I want this mask to be inspired. I want it to be jaw-droppingly beautiful, ethereal, majestic. And most of all, I want it to be white. I have a vision of Lily in a white mask, which doesn’t make it easy for me because white is my weakest color. White masks always come out bland at my hands. Especially the feather ones, which is the kind I want Lily’s to be. I try to talk myself out of that color, but fail.

I work on it all night. Can’t stop. It always makes me feel good to do things for Lily, and she never asks for anything, so the opportunities are rare.

In the morning, I sleep for a few hours and then get back to work on the mask. One reason it’s taking so long is that I keep pausing to daydream about Lily wearing it and taking it off for Strad while the music is playing.

I continue working all day, and by the evening, I’m practically done. This white mask rivals—possibly even surpasses—my most beautiful colored masks. I had to make the eyeholes close to each other, though doing so would reveal Lily’s biggest facial defect. So I made the eyeholes huge, touching in the middle and extending far to the sides, in a sort of infinity symbol, which turns out to be the mask’s most stunning feature. I covered the eyeholes with a mirrored surface (the type of glass used for mirrored sunglasses). It’s essentially the same concept as the mask she already has—but attractive. Lily will be able to look out, but anyone trying to look in will only see themselves.

THE SECOND THING Lily takes care of is asking Barnes & Noble for the special favor she is hoping they’ll do for her. They refuse, claiming a whole day is too long to play her mysterious “other” music instead of her brilliant book music, and that their sales would suffer excessively. But then Marcy Singer, a very kind store manager, succeeds in getting permission to play that “other” music, as a “very special favor,” from two to three o’clock, on any afternoon of Lily’s choice—but only one single afternoon.

Lily is pleased. One hour seems more than adequate to get her fantasy started.

THE TIME HAS come to make the phone call. No one wants to be the one to make it, though everyone wants to listen, including Peter, so we gather at my place to decide who will do it.

But first, I can’t resist showing Lily and the others the white mask I’ve almost completed. When they see it, they gasp.

To my great pleasure, Lily says, “I never expected you to make something this amazing!” She touches it lightly with her fingertips.

They all stand there admiring my mask, which cannot go on long enough for my taste.

“It’s reminiscent of a mask one might find in Venice, only more unusual,” Penelope says.

“It’s your best work,” Jack states.

“Possibly,” I reply, pleased. “I don’t know what possessed me.”

“You don’t? I do,” Georgia says. “What possessed you is the same thing that possessed me last night: inspiration. Caused by Lily, her perseverance, and her magical success. When I got home, after I got over my initial despair that I would never be able to create art that came even close to rivaling hers, I decided to emulate her. Just for the hell of it. Just to see what happened. So I got a bucket and placed it next to my chair in case I needed to throw up, because, as you know, every time I even think of trying to write since I got my laptop back, it makes me want to vomit. I sat there and actually attempted to write.”

“And? Did you succeed?” Peter asks.

“I’m not saying I produced anything on Lily’s level. But it was like before I lost my laptop. As though I’d never lost it. And to me, that feels like magic. It’s all I could hope for.”

“I’m so happy you’re writing again!” Peter exclaims, hugging Georgia, to our surprise. “What a relief! All is right with the world.” His hug lifts her off the ground.

Lily thanks me again for the mask. I tell her I can’t give it to her just yet because I need one or two more days to add a couple of finishing touches to it.

“It looks pretty finished to me,” Penelope says. “Be careful not to spoil it. I know that sometimes when I overwork a ceramic piece, it turns out worse rather than better.”

“Really? That’s interesting,” Jack says, strolling over to my shelves. “Where’s that nice ceramic box you made for Barb a few weeks ago? That was such a beautiful example of having not overworked a piece. And it had such a nice clasp.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t make the clasp, remember, only the box.”

We move on to the question of who will call Strad. As expected, they all say they’d rather not, which only leaves me. I’d rather not, too, but I cave in.

On speakerphone, I dial Strad’s number.

“Strad, Barb,” I say, when he picks up.

“Hi Barb,” he says.

“I’m calling to set you up on a blind date.”

“Oh.” A cautious pause. Then, “Who is she? What does she look like?”

His question surprises me, which surprises me.

“She is a knockout,” I tell him.

I give him Lily’s new cell phone number—the one she got for this occasion.

To our pleasure, he calls her just a few minutes after hanging up with me. Lily answers her cell on speakerphone, so that we can all hear. She adopts a slightly deeper voice than her natural pitch.

He asks her a few perfunctory questions. She tells him she’s my new assistant. That’s what we settled on in advance, along with her new name, “Sondra Peterson,” which she picked as an homage to her favorite top model from the sixties.

They make plans to meet on Sunday at two o’clock at the coffee shop on the third floor of Barnes & Noble in Union Square. Just like in Lily’s fantasy.

Before they hang up, he says, “How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be wearing a mask.”

Silence. “Why?”

“Why not? It’s as good a way as any to be recognized.”

Silence. “And then you’ll take it off? I like being able to see who I’m talking to.”

“Yes, I’ll take it off.”

PART

TWO

Chapter Thirteen

Carrying a shopping bag containing her two masks, Lily goes to Barnes & Noble for her two p.m. blind date with Strad (she tells us all about it later). Customers in the store have already been under the influence of Lily’s “beauty” music for a few minutes, so she gets admiring stares when she enters, which she finds unsettling. It’s the first time in her life she’s out in public and beautiful.

She takes the escalator straight to the third floor and hides behind some bookcases to spy on the coffee shop area. She wants to wait until Strad arrives and seats himself before she makes her appearance.

Three minutes later, she sees him ambling into the coffee shop area. He looks around, searching for someone wearing a mask, sees no one, chooses an empty table, hangs his jacket on the back of the chair, and stands in line to buy a snack.

Lily decides that she will make her entrance when he’s back at his seat. She feels more nervous than she expected.

While she waits, a young man tries to start a conversation with her. No one ever tries to pick her up, so at first she doesn’t realize what he’s doing. When it finally occurs to her that asking her what is her favorite time to come to Barnes & Noble is a weird question, she says, “I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now,” and turns back to her object of interest, who’s paying. Strad carries a hot beverage and a plate with a pastry on it to his table. He looks around again, then at his watch, and sits.

Now is the time. Her apprehension has grown. Trying to calm herself, she takes a deep breath.

She pulls out of her shopping bag the green mask of the Wicked Witch of the West wearing sunglasses. She puts it on.

Before she has a chance to take her first step in Strad’s direction, there is a tap on her shoulder and an “Excuse me” behind her. She turns. It’s the same guy again. He jumps with fright, looking aghast.

She lifts up her mask. “What?”

He holds up a book. “This is my favorite novel. Have you read it?”

She thought she’d made herself perfectly clear to this guy.

“I’m sorry, I’m in a relationship,” she lies, “and in the middle of something important. I’d really be grateful if you would leave me alone. I’m sorry.” She replaces the mask over her face, hoping it’ll frighten him away.

He raises his hands. “Shame. But okay,” he says, and walks off.

Strad is now sipping from his cup and reading a magazine.

Lily steps out from behind the bookcase just as a group of people are walking by, headed toward the coffee shop area. She goes with the flow.

Strad looks up from his paper, scanning his surroundings again. He does a double take. He has spotted her behind the approaching heads. His eyes are locked on her mask and he’s not smiling.

He rises from his chair and gives her a courteous nod as she nears. She nods back and stops in front of him. He mumbles hello, says it’s nice to meet her. He indicates the empty chair. She sits.

The first thing he says when they’re seated is, “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your sense of humor. But they do say first impressions are very important.” He laughs. “I guess you haven’t heard that?”

“They’re not that important.”

From the start, the fantasy is not going exactly as she had imagined. There’s a different feel to it. First off, the coffee shop is loud. More so than usual. Her soul-baring music is not easy to hear above all the noise. This worries her. She wonders if her music’s transformative power will be diminished or maybe even canceled.

As a result, the thing she has been looking forward to the most—the removal of the mask—she now begins to dread.

Her anxiety is not helped by what Strad asks her next.

“Do you know Barb well?”

“Not that well. I only started working for her recently,” she says, the first of probably many lies.

“Why do you think she wanted to set us up? I don’t entirely trust her motives. I think it’s a trick to teach me a lesson. She disapproves of a couple of my views. They all do, that bunch.” He shakes his head regretfully. “Too bad, really. I admire them.”

He will certainly feel tricked if she takes off her mask and he sees his ugly former colleague Lily sitting in front of him instead of beautiful Sondra. This could happen because of all the racket masking her music. To make matters worse, children are crying at three different tables around them. Unbelievable. It’s not romantic. What bad luck.

She suddenly wishes she didn’t have to take off her mask. Maybe she’ll simply refuse to take it off. She has a right to change her mind. Perhaps she’ll just arrange to see Strad another time, someplace safer, more familiar, such as Barb’s apartment. These thoughts are calming her. And she decides right then that, in fact, she won’t take off her mask. There. She feels much better now.

“God, it’s so loud here,” he complains.

“I know.”

“This cake is great. Here, have a bite,” he says.

“No thanks, I’m not hungry.”

“It would make me so happy if you would taste it.”

Her anxiety returns. Obviously he’s trying to get her to take off her mask.

She will give in without giving in. “Okay,” she says.

She takes the fork he’s handing her, on which rests a piece of tart, and lifts the bottom of her mask just enough to slide the bite into her mouth.

She chews and releases the mask to where it was. “Mmm. It’s good,” she says.

Lily glances at Strad. He is solemn. Clearly he’s disappointed that she hasn’t removed her mask as she’d promised she would. Well, tough.

Taking it upon herself to get the conversation going again, she says, “So, Barb tells me you’re a musician. What kind of music do you play?”

“Wait,” he says. “I’m still recovering.”

“Recovering?” she asks, puzzled.

“Yes,” he says, gazing down, looking almost pained.

“From what?”

“That glimpse of your chin,” he replies, softly.

She doesn’t respond.

“I think I’d like to get together again, based solely on your chin.”

“Ah.” She doesn’t know what else to say. All she can think about is how relieved she is that the music worked well enough on her chin. And not only that, he wants to see her again. Things could not be better.

They chat about various things. He tells her about the evening he spent having dinner with the Knights of Creation at Barb’s apartment, and how they attacked Jack and then were handcuffed for dinner to a ballet bar and then were sectioned off for dessert by a transparent plastic sheet hanging from the ceiling. Lily tries to react as though she wasn’t there. But conveying amusement and amazement while masked is not easy and has to be done entirely with voice and body language, which she does as best she can by flinging her head around and laughing loudly.

Then Strad moves on to the topic of Lily’s music. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s her music playing, right now,” he says, finger pointing up, ear cocked. “That’s if you can hear it above all this howling. God, you’d think we were in a day care center. Anyway, if that’s her music, probably before we leave here today we’ll have bought at least five books each.”

Lily laughs. “Really?”

“Oh yeah, you’ll see. Lily’s got phenomenal talent.”

Suddenly, a floor manager appears at their table.

Lily and Strad stare up at him, wondering what it’s about.

The manager leans toward them and says, in a hushed voice, “Excuse me, your mask is upsetting the children. I’ve had a few complaints from mothers. Would it be too much to ask you to please remove it? I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was the cause of the crying,” Lily says.

The manager nods sympathetically, waiting for her to take it off.

Lily frantically wonders if her music is loud enough to work its magic. It did okay with her chin, apparently. But she’s gripped by an irrational fear that now the effect won’t work.

She’s tempted to tell the manager, “In my bag I have another, much more attractive mask that the children might prefer. Could I just switch masks in the bathroom?”

But why postpone the inevitable? She did not spend weeks struggling to create music that would beautify her just to keep her face hidden.

She prays that when she takes off the mask, Strad will not recognize her. If he sees Lily, the embarrassment would kill her.

She lifts the mask and puts it in her shopping bag. “No problem. Out of sight, out of mind,” she says.

Both men are staring at her. They look dumbstruck.

The manager regains his wits first, and says to Lily. “You know, you look very familiar. Do I look familiar to you?”

Lily studies his face. He’s in his late twenties, dark hair, glasses, nice-looking. “I don’t think so,” she says.

“Hmm. Could I have your number or give you mine so we can figure out where we might have met before?” He chuckles, mock sheepishly. “Otherwise I know it’s going to nag at me.”

Strad snaps out of it. “You must be joking. We’re on a date. Please leave us alone.”

“Apologies.” The manager leaves.

“Can you believe his lame pickup line?” Strad tells her.

She smiles.

“It’s so quiet now. It really was your mask causing all the crying.” He attempts to shake his head at her flirtatiously, but he seems nervous. He glances around. His smile fades. “Do you always have half the people in a room staring at you?” He adds in a whisper, “Especially the male half?” He attempts another flirtatious look of reproach.

“Let’s ignore them,” Lily says.

They talk about various things. His childhood. Hers—partly made up so it won’t match Lily’s. He asks her about her tastes in everything. He tells her about his music and acting ambitions.

Their conversation is interrupted by the approach of a distinguished older man with a warm, intelligent face who hands Lily a book. “Excuse me. I just want to give you a copy of my autobiography that was recently published. I hope you’ll enjoy it.” His accent sounds French.

Lily hesitantly takes the book, entitled This Is Not an Autobiography.

“Oh. Thank you,” she says.

“You’re quite welcome,” the man replies, bowing to her and then to Strad before walking away.

Lily opens the cover and sees a handwritten message to her: “For the stranger who spoke to me without speaking. I’d love to know your thoughts on this—or on anything. Danny.” And a phone number is scribbled underneath.

“Do you mind if I take a look?” Strad asks.

Lily gives him the book.

He reads the message, snorts, and tosses the book on the middle of the table.

Lily picks it up and reads the back cover, which seems to annoy Strad, who says, “So who the hell is this guy?”

“This says he’s a legendary French photographer.”

“Yeah, bullshit.”

“The photo looks like him,” she says and quickly puts the book down, not wanting to annoy Strad further.

They resume their conversation, which gets interrupted ten minutes later by yet another man—this time a tall and extremely good-looking one.

“I don’t believe this,” Strad mutters through clenched teeth.

The man looks down at Lily without saying a word and places a little piece of paper on the table in front of her. She picks it up. It reads: “You deserve the best. Let’s have coffee.” His phone number is underneath.

She chuckles nervously and looks up at him. He smiles at her before strolling off.

With an air of indifference (in order to calm Strad), Lily lets go of the paper. It flutters to the tabletop. Strad reaches for it, reads it, and, with scathing disdain, calls out after the man, “What are you, a male model or something?”

The man pivots on his heels and comes back to the table. “Pardon?” he says, looming over Strad.

Strad does not hesitate to stand and confront the man, even though this man is taller than he is. “I said, ‘What are you? A ridiculous male model, or something?’”

The man takes hold of Strad’s jacket lapels, pulls him close, and talks to him intimately. “And what do you think you are, you pathetic, greasy, ugly, creep?”

Strad struggles free and then charges the man. They both crash into some empty chairs. They wrestle on the floor, throwing punches. The floor manager rushes over, tries to make them stop. People shout. Toddlers resume crying. Lily is distraught. But not nearly as distraught as she is a moment later when she realizes that the music has abruptly changed. She looks at her watch. The favor-hour is over. The book music is back on. And now her appearance is undoubtedly starting to change in people’s eyes.

She springs from her chair, grabs her shopping bag, and runs to the escalator, leaving the French photographer’s book and the possible male model’s phone number on the table, far too in love with Strad to be interested in other men’s advances.

“Sondra!” Strad shouts. He loses interest in the fight, struggles to his feet, and rushes after her.

She hops onto the moving staircase and flies down the metal steps while putting on the beautiful mask I made for her—in case Strad catches up with her. She looks back and sees him leaping onto the escalator just as she’s getting onto the next one. A group of people are in his way, slowing down his pursuit.

Soon, Lily is out of sight and too far away to be caught. Strad gives up. He goes back up to the coffee shop to retrieve his knapsack with his wallet, then walks across Union Square, straight to my apartment.

When I open the door for him, he looks frazzled, frantic even.

“Barb, I’m afraid I made a bad impression. I think I scared her away. I got into a fight with a guy. It was stupid of me. But jerks kept coming on to her. I couldn’t take it anymore. She’s so beautiful. Barb, she’s amazing.”

I gaze at the few cuts on his face and hands. I won’t pretend they don’t bring me satisfaction.

I decide I will take this opportunity to explain Lily’s frequent wearing of a mask, so he won’t question it in the future. Giving him a look of concern, I reply, “Yes she’s very beautiful, but fragile.”

“What do you mean, fragile?”

“You’ll see, if you get to know her. Her beauty is taxing for her, as I’m sure you can imagine, now that you’ve witnessed the excessive attention and advances she has to deal with all the time. It’s a heavy burden to bear. As a result, she has erected certain defense mechanisms.”

“Like what?”

I answer by looking past him, into my living room. Strad follows my gaze, which lands on my large, brown, swivel easy chair with its back to us.

Slowly, the chair turns, revealing Lily wearing the white feather mask.

Strad’s eyes open wide.

I move to the stereo and turn on the special music.

“I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself,” he tells her.

Lily makes no response.

“I apologize for the fight at the bookstore. I hope I didn’t freak you out too much. I don’t usually get into fights. I’m not a violent person, I swear,” he says.

Lily languorously swivels the chair, disappearing behind its back once more. When she reappears, she is unmasked.

The music has had enough time to take effect. Her inner beauty is exposed in all its radiance.

Her lips, curved in their deliriously lovely way, spread into a mischievous grin. “You didn’t freak me out that much.”

MY FRIENDS COME over the following day for a Night of Creation. When Lily has finished regaling them with her account of her bookstore date, we work. Peter is drawing in his pad, frequently glancing at me, as usual. I’m not looking at him much, but I’m thinking about him—and not entirely happily. He seems attracted to me, and yet he hasn’t been doing anything about it. He must not be as interested as he seems, and it must be my disguise that’s preventing him from wanting to take things further. It’s disappointing. I hoped he might be different.

In Central Park at nine p.m., two days later, Strad is waiting for Lily where they decided to meet for their second date: along the edge of the lake in a secluded spot at the foot of some rocks.

He’s been waiting five minutes.

Suddenly, he sees her at the top of the rock formation behind him, wearing her white mask. She looks majestic standing there, gazing down at him. He waves at her.

With a minimal gesture of the head, she motions for him to join her. Before he can, she backs away until she’s out of sight. He scrambles up the rocks to find her.

And he does. She’s leaning against a tree, waiting for him.

“You’re wearing your mask again,” he says, surprised.

She nods.

“I guess you wear it a lot?”

She nods.

“How come?”

“I can’t talk about it now. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s okay. It’s great to see you again. Or at least to somewhat see you again,” he says, as they begin to stroll. “How’ve you been?”

“Well. And you?”

“I hardly know,” he murmurs.

“Oh? Is something wrong?”

“I’d rather not talk about it right now. It is so nice to see you again.”

“Thank you. Have you had dinner?”

“No. I haven’t had much appetite lately,” he says, looking off into the distance.

Georgia had predicted that “He will barely eat and he will barely sleep. Your face is not one from which one recovers quickly.”

Lily glances at him. He does look rather tired and gaunt. She feels a surge of joy.

That’s why Lily had to ask. Curiosity. Not because she wanted dinner, which she couldn’t eat anyway, with her mask.

Eventually, they sit on a rock at the edge of the lake, in the obscurity. The side of his body is touching the side of hers.

“May I take off your mask?” he asks.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Why not? I mean, I understand that with your looks, wearing a mask attracts less attention than not wearing one, but right now we’re alone. No one will see you.”

“Except you.”

“Why would that be a problem?”

“Now is not a good time.”

“What a shame. I don’t even remember what you look like.”

She chuckles.

“It’s true,” he says. “Hasn’t that ever happened to you—you think about someone so much, you can no longer remember their face clearly?”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” she says.

“So.” He pauses, grins at her. “When will I get to see your face again?”

“I’m not sure, yet. I often wear a mask. I wear it at many expected times, and at some unexpected times.”

“I see. And do you have an aversion to being touched?” he asks.

“No.”

“Really? Could have fooled me. You’re completely covered. Even your hands. I can’t see any of your skin.”

“That’s because it’s cold,” she laughs.

“The only part of you that’s not covered is the back of your head. Do you mind if I touch that?”

“I guess not.”

“Turn around.”

She turns her back to him.

She feels his hands softly separating her hair, pushing it forward over her shoulders.

“There’s your skin,” he notes.

He runs one finger along her part, and over her nape, sending shivers through her body. He gently kisses the back of her neck.

At the end of the date, he asks her if he can see her again tomorrow, if not sooner.